


sing the stars to sleep

by courante



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Darker than Black, M/M, Minor Violence, Superpowers, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courante/pseuds/courante
Summary: “You know what, I hate when you don’t talk. It’s creepy.”"Yeah?"“You sure you’re not a demon?”Shane sighs, running one hand through his hair as he fumbles for the car keys with the other. “You just killed a man by magically electrocuting him with your hands, and you’re askingmeif I'm a demon.”
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	sing the stars to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> one day in mid-2018-ish i thought, hey, wouldn't it be a cool idea for a fic if ryan was hei from darker than black! then i wrote this, abandoned it, then rediscovered and edited it in 2020 with the entirety of cali≠gari's discography playing in the background. so that's the kind of fic this is.
> 
> knowledge of dtb would probably make things make a bit more sense, but just think of it as a superhero au where everyone is a villain and can only use those powers conditionally, i guess. i sure did Not stick that close to canon! i also forgot everyone has codenames in the original so kinda gave up on that halfway haha uh oops. pls enjoy this disaster.

“You sure do have a lot of emotions,” Shane says, after pulling the other man, fully clothed and sopping wet out of the river. “Like, for a Contractor.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ryan tells him with a grin, and Shane does so promptly. They walk to the car in silence; fine by Shane, but apparently Ryan changes his mind halfway up the grassy hill. “You know what, I hate when you don’t talk. It’s creepy.”

“Yeah?”

“You sure you’re not a demon?”

Shane sighs, running one hand through his hair as he fumbles for the car keys with the other. “You just killed a man by magically electrocuting him with your hands, and you’re asking _me_ if I’m a demon.”

“Don’t start with the false equivalencies, my dude.”

“...Don’t _my dude_ me, I beg you.”

Every time a Contractor uses their powers, the sky gets _weird_. Shane wouldn’t know why, though he’d had a passing interest in the stars before all them disappeared and got replaced by—who knows. Red eyes, shine bright. Creepy like some kind of fucked up _Spy Kids_ shit, but it is what it is.

He’s got a friend at the Observatory, the kind that’s mostly informant but sometimes drinking buddy, but it’s not like he gets access to the stars all that often what with the cops and bureaucrats and foreign emissaries strolling around the area like it belongs to the UN. Still, Shane has seen it once, when he was younger and more prone to acts of impulse—the maps of their now-cosmos, hanging in the air within threads of light.

Shane hadn’t met Ryan then, but it would be hard for anyone to not notice BK-201 in a dark room. 

Shane hadn’t started out wanting to join the Syndicate, honest to God, or Hell’s Gate, or whatever exists out there that’s conspired to make his previous lifestyle go the way of the dinosaur or general human rights conventions. But that doesn’t really matter now, in the grand scheme of things. He’s got enough on his plate to wrangle without having to deal with that extra dose of existential dread.

He plops down on their single sad-looking office chair and starts typing up yesterday’s incident report as the coffee machine whirs in the background. TJ and Devon are out; Ryan’s asleep on the couch with Obi curled up next to him, a portrait of serenity quickly shattered by the fact that his phone’s beeping to the tune of Here’s A New Mission, Fuck You.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Shane says. He doesn’t poke Ryan in the cheek not because it had ended badly last time but because Obi’s obscuring his angle of attack. “Ryan?”

“Mmmphf.”

“Well, if you insist.”

An accidental clink of the glass gives it away; Ryan groans and moves out of range before the water could splash on his face. “Don’t push it.”

“Don’t really want Katie crashing through the window with a machete either, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Shut up, Shane.”

Shane would like to, perhaps, spend the rest of the afternoon finishing his reports, make a nice cup of tea somewhere along the way, and take a long walk around the block to the communal flower-patch before heading home for dinner. Alas. If he’d thought being a handler would involve things less strenuous than simply being a walking coat-hanger phone-chatterer type, he’d been wrong.

It would also have been marvelous if he’d also thought of wearing a different shirt, but not one second after they’ve arrived at the carpark does something explode through one of the walls and he finds himself rolling away from the fire. _Great_ , Shane thinks as he feels the gravel scrape at his skin, _shoulda just thrown all my white shirts out when I took this job._

But it doesn’t matter. Presently Ryan finds him outside the cafe a few blocks away with a cappuccino, because what the hell are you going to do when your partner is busy blowing up people in a carpark, stay there and let the cops nab you? Nah, fuck that. 

“You didn’t get one for me?” Ryan asks. Pretends to look hurt, even. Not that the open gash on his left cheek isn’t doing most of that work for him, but Shane shrugs and throws the company card at him. “Really.”

“Just say you got into an accident.”

Ryan comes out with an oversized something; Shane doesn’t ask what it is. Doesn’t ask about the giggling of the baristas behind him, either. They sit on the bench outside, sipping on their drinks as several police cars zoom past, blissfully unaware of their existence.

Life is...not _great_ , but he'll take what he can get.

Shane can’t really remember what he was doing, or even where he was, when the war happened. Probably burrowed away in his college dorm room and watching old reruns. Not that any of his old life matters anymore, from the videomaking to the journalisting to the—well.

When Katie (bless her heart) first assigned him to Ryan a year ago she’d graciously pulled him aside to fill him in weeks before their first mission together. Ryan wasn’t the first contractor Shane had worked with, but he certainly hadn’t been prepared for the Black Reaper.

“I feel like you’d get along,” she’d told him, and Shane had been almost sure he’d seen her wink. “Or he’ll want to murder you. Don’t let that happen, you hear me?”

Shane didn’t believe her then. But just as his disbelief in the supernatural was forcibly and inelegantly evaporated as incidents started piling up into Heaven’s War back then, Ryan was quickly proven just as weird as Katie had implied.

“And?”

—He eats too much, trades snarks with Shane, acts like a completely, devastatingly normal person? Slips into every job he needs to do like nobody else’s business, charismatic to a fault, even if it's a lie? It’s like—

“ _You_ act more like a Contractor than he does,” TJ tells him one night, when they’re out getting curry. “You sure you haven't developed any tingly feelings on your fingers?”

“Sure would like it,” Shane replies. “Maybe I’m a late bloomer. Who knows?”

If he _were_ one, Shane thinks sometimes, he’d like the power to simply make really good coffee out of anything, with the remuneration of having to drink it. Something small. Something the stargazers could care less about. Something that won’t disrupt the flow of the universe and the stars in the sky more than they’ve already been irreversibly fucked. 

Nobody Shane knows would tell him about Ryan’s last handler. People don’t really talk about that, and Katie hadn’t known him, back then. It’s fine, though. People come and go all the time, get sent to other places, and you never see them again. Happens all the time when you’re a criminal, or something toeing the line.

“I used to be allergic to cats,” Ryan tells him a couple days after the carpark incident, when they’re in Shane’s car waiting for the target to come out of the building. Obi’s in a carrier in the backseat; just another one of their duties for the day.

“Is this your way of promising me you won’t accidentally drop the cage when you get him from the vet later?” Shane asks. Maybe Ryan’s joshing him; wouldn’t be the first time someone’s remuneration included petting small fluffy animals. Come to think of it, he’s never seen Ryan performing his before.

“What? _No_. I’m not a monster.”

Shane bites his lip, but it’s too late. “Ryan, we murk people for a living.”

“ _I_ murder people, Shane,” Ryan corrects, gaze flickering up towards him. The grin is already unnerving enough with those words, but there’s something brittle in his tone that triggers the dusty alarm bells in Shane’s brain. _Oh_. Before he could apologize, though, Ryan’s already got a foot out of the car, mask back on. “Be back at five.”

“Ryan, wait—”

He reaches out, but all he grabs is a fistful of air.

_Back then_ , Ryan would say occasionally, and Shane would perk up, a mostly internal reaction. He’s gotten kinda great at the poker face no emotions thing, something Ryan refuses to do, which has become somewhat of a running joke within his circle. Oh, that’s Shane, he’ll get the job done, staring you down through the barrel of a gun, no questions asked. And that’s Ryan, who’ll make a funny joke about the basketballs, before rearranging your insides and tossing you off a skyscraper.

Shane hates those jokes, because Ryan could be so much funnier. Basketball is such a waste of time.

Sometimes he would even look _wistful_ , and that's a thing Shane doesn't see often around these parts. Stopping to pet a dog on the street after work. Jumps three feet in the air at shadows (thankfully, Shane would think then, the universe didn't go so far inject into him the powers of say, Storm from X-Men) and various small rodents and insects making the most innocuous of noises. Great instincts for figuring out observational spirits, not so much on the _actual_ ghost part. 

—They don't exist. It’s a lingering part of his past beliefs that refuses to leave. There's a scientific explanation for everything up to and including Contractors; just that the definition of science has expanded exponentially since.

_Back then, I played basketball with my brother. In the backyard, before everything._

Shane does not show up at the office at five. He gets kidnapped on his way to the supermarket after dropping Obi off—as one does—and spirited away to some building out in the boondocks. He isn’t quite sure where he is, actually.

He’s not particularly worried, however, when the burlap sack comes off his head and he finds himself staring into two very familiar, expectant faces. 

“You lot again? Don’t have anything interesting on me today, I’m afraid.”

Steven and Andrew glance at each other, almost cartoonishly. Then Steven pats Andrew on the back and turns away: “Can you deal with this, ‘drew? Don’t kill him.”

“Yes, don’t kill me.”

"No promises,” Andrew replies, one eyebrow raised.

Still, getting punched in the stomach hurts like a motherfucker, never mind Shane’s stringbean body having little to no cushion for the strength of someone who’s used to hurting people. Ryan’s punched him before, yeah, but it’s not like _he’s_ ever done so in order to get information out of him. He’s much better with a gun. Which he doesn’t have right now, and that _sucks_.

Andrew sets him upright a few moments later, steely green eyes betraying nothing as he casually surveys his handiwork. Steven’s not even in the room anymore—probably upstairs snorting his gold flakes, or something. “You know, it’d be easier to just turn that USB over.”

“Ah—nope. Don’t have it anymore.” He cocks his head towards the pile of boxes, straining as the nerves inside him seem to catch fire. “Bit cliche of your lair, boxes for people to hide in.”

“Take it up with whoever owns this place,” Andrew says. He takes a step back and squints, as if trying to figure out where next to bruise. Shane should be glad he’s in a good mood today, if the lack of Steven or Adam being down here with him is any indication. Contractors are logical people; they don’t murder small-timers like Shane over something like confidential information from the feds. He suspects that, rather—

A rumble above their heads takes him out of his thoughts. Andrew’s behind him in an instant, hand on one shoulder, knife beneath his throat. It tickles some, prompting Shane to squirm. “Stop.”

“He’s not gonna—”

“Shut _up_ ,” Andrew growls, and the blade cuts into his skin. It’s not the first time Shane suspects anything having to do with KW-117 getting hurt would probably be the end of him, but this…well, it leaves him no choice.

“Why don’t you just use your spooky powers on me, huh. I mean, it’s pretty easy to just grab my head and—”

The door bursts open, static crackling in the air, and oh, okay. Shane tugs at his bindings one last time before closing his eyes.

“...I’m not dead yet, you know.”

“Yes, princess.”

“Shut u— _fuck_!”

Ryan winces as Shane pulls the makeshift bandage tighter. They’re in a park a few blocks away from Shane’s place, after having abandoned the stolen motorbike somewhere further downtown. He doubts they’d chase them this far, though Shane wonders if next time Andrew would just lop his head off the moment they invariably run into each other again.

Not a pleasant thought.

“Hey,” Ryan says, quietly, as Shane’s finishing up. He’s leaning against a tree, looking the worst Shane’s seen him in a while. The cuts on his neck and shoulders are shallower, though Shane wonders what Ryan did to warrant getting impaled through the leg. “You okay, big guy?”

“I just don’t get it,” Shane replies, like the doofus he is. On any other day he’d keep it in well enough, buried too far to even consider exposing, but today has gone on for far too long. His body aches like he’s seventy-three, and not entirely thanks to Andrew throwing him at a wall an hour ago. “I should be asking you that. Actually, may I?”

“May you what?”

“Ask you something that might be potentially strange and invasive?”

“Uh,” Ryan blinks in confusion. “Sure?”

“Just in case I gotta cover for you in the future,” Shane continues, tentative. God, he hates this so much. “Your remuneration.”

Silence. Ryan’s hand strays in the grass, briefly, as if in response to a painful spasm, before returning his gaze to Shane. Then he starts laughing.

“Ry?”

“I wish I had one.”

“What?”

He leans forward, and the air is dry around them. Shane, out of instinct or out of merely being so extremely tired, does not move an inch. In the distant streetlight illuminating his face just barely Shane could see no red in his eyes. “I don’t _have_ one, big guy. They never told you that? It’s…ah, shit. It’s a long story.”

“I have time.” He looks around—no water for observational spirits, here. “Ryan, you’re not like… dying or anything, right? Do Contracts make sickness… go away?”

“Oh my god, _Shane_ , you idiot.” Like clockwork, he reaches over and pokes Shane in the cheek, lingering a little too long before pulling away again. “You know what, never mind. It’ll remain a mystery forever!”

“That’s not very nice,” Shane replies, slightly miffed that Ryan would think about throwing his own words back like that, right here, right now. Even though it indeed feels very nice having his face be violated so softly by Ryan Bergara’s normally death-inducing fingertips. He touches the spot and finds it still warm, just like the eyes he’s looking into right now. “Do it again.”

“Oh my god, is Obi—”

“Yes, he’s home, relax.”

As if on cue, the cutest orange menace in the world pounces at Ryan almost as soon as they enter Shane’s apartment and ends up not leaving his side at all.

Shane orders them all takeout ( _way_ too much takeout; he’s starting to suspect Ryan’s supposed lack of remuneration may simply be canceled out by consuming inhuman amounts of food) and they spend the rest of the night playing (in Shane’s case, failing spectacularly at) Call of Duty. Tomorrow, when things die down a little—when there’s less threat of the clinic getting bombed—they’ll drive back to headquarters for an actual medical checkup. Whatever super-healing powers some Contractors might have does not mean Shane wants to be responsible for anything that might go wrong, even if Ryan had insisted he would be fine. Until then…

“Hey, big guy.”

“Yeah?”

He’s folding clothes in his room and Ryan’s in his bed, kind of staring at his phone and kind of just starting to doze off from the painkillers. His leg seems to be doing a bit better, or at least it looks like it is.

“I’ll tell you about it one day,” he murmurs. Phone down on bed, eyes drifting towards Shane. It takes a few moments for him to register what Ryan’s talking about. “Promise. Not now, though. Kinda woozy.”

“You don’t have to,” Shane answers, slowly, blinking at him. Maybe the less he knows the better. But he is curious, and he can’t help that. “It’d just be nice to know.”

Ryan closes his eyes. “Knew you’d say that. Thanks, anyway.”

“We’re partners,” Shane shrugs and goes back to his folding, though it is a little warm tonight and he feels as if he should really just leave Ryan to his rest, right now, before things he really would rather leave alone for the time being explode out of his lungs. He could almost hear the soft grin in Ryan’s voice as he shifts around in bed and mutters something, maybe _Goodnight_ , maybe _you’re such a dumbass, Shane Alexander Madej_. Or maybe that’s just all in his head. “Should I close the door?”

No answer.

Shane sighs. He shuts the dresser and walks over to the bedside lamp; Ryan’s out like a light, face buried in arms, covers thrown haphazardly over perhaps only thirty percent of his body. Obi’s somewhere under the bed; maybe he’ll keep the door open, after all.

There are no stars visible tonight, right now, and occasionally—Shane finds that just fine.

“Goodnight to the Bergmeister,” he whispers. He’ll have time to overthink and overanalyze things tomorrow. Ryan doesn’t stir one bit as Shane pulls the covers up to his shoulders and switches the nightlight on, illuminating the room with a mellow glow; a perfect portrait of serenity. 


End file.
